


If you give me your word, I expect it to be true.

by sophoklesworld



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew's thought process, I hate myself for it only slightly, Introspection, M/M, POV First Person, and in Baltimore, during the riot, it's not actually like first person though? It's like a talk at someone (neil), kind of, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:02:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophoklesworld/pseuds/sophoklesworld
Summary: You argue I care about people.I argue (only with myself) that I care for people.Distinct in its difference. About. For.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Kudos: 6





	If you give me your word, I expect it to be true.

**Author's Note:**

> I've started writing this, apparently, in 2017. And now, when I wanted to get feelings out of my brain, my heart, my soul, I found it again. It was probably about a quarter from where I kept going, and that's what it's turned out to be...
> 
> I know, First Person POV, the bane of my existence. Somehow, I ended up here, _again_ anyway. Don't ask why.
> 
> Loosely inspired by this [post](https://sophoklesworld.tumblr.com/post/623892574684479488/sunshine-knox-best-case-scenario-its)

Did you ever think about actually caring about a person?  
Of course you have. You’re _normal_. (Except that’s not right. You’re not normal. You never were. If you were, you would not be a danger. To yourself, to my family, to me. You, danger from outside, danger from within, you: Salvation. If you were normal, 'interesting’ would not describe you well. If you were normal, I could hide, pretend, survive.)  
To me, a person is only as good as their word.  
Caring, family is about who I am willing to protect.  
That’s what my cousin says anyway.  
He is right, to a degree.  
If I promise to protect you, I will.  
If you give me your word.  
I expect it to be true.  
If you break it.  
I will make sure you will suffer the consequences.

* * *

I never planned on actually caring about a person.  
Sexual attraction is one thing.  
I can get that out of my system.  
But feelings.  
I hate them.  
Feelings.   
They make careless.  
Feelings.  
I hate them.  
Danger from outside, external sources are known. Nothing new. Nothing unexpected. Always has been, always will be.  
Danger from within. Feelings. New. Unexpected. Never should have been. But also never something I could get away from.  
Feelings.  
I hate them.  
I hate you.  
You’re lost. Gone. Pain stops in my face with a blooming bruise only to start up again, boiling over in the rage and impossible feeling of fear.  
Fear. Another feeling. Even worse because it’s for someone else. Not my own life (is there regard for that? Has there ever been?), not my own sin, not _uncared_ for. Fear, a feeling for feelings. Fear that a boundless void of rage cannot overcome.  
Fear.  
Feelings. Caring. Caring for life, for the breaths of a soul, for the warmth and safety that should blanket them. Should blanket you.  
Feelings.  
I hate them. I hate you. I hate everything you stand for.  
Feelings.  
They’re rage. They’re rage instilled in every breath. Rage for revenge. Rage for freedom. Rage for sorrow. Rage for love.  
Feelings.  
They’re in my core. Sudden (not so sudden, always there, always hidden away) and the core is ruptured.   
Feelings.  
They spill out, light, as dark as nothingness, yet so bright it hurts as the core crumbles.  
Feelings.  
The only thing that’s left after the reason — the cause, the consequence — is gone. Swallowed up, not by the overflowing darkness, nothingness, raging feelings, but by the Danger from outside (would it ever be any different).  
Feelings.  
There’s nothing left to stand in the way of. There’s nothing left to do, nothing left to say. Except letting the feelings spill. Except for the rage.   
Feelings.   
An outlet.   
A final outlet, always hidden, never used.  
Feelings.   
There is no cure.  
Feelings.There’s only salvation. But gone, along with the Danger from the outside, is also salvation.  
Feelings.  
There’s nothing left to do. Nothing left to hide. Nothing left to see. Only to feel.  
Feelings.  
They’re fatal.

* * *

You argue I care about people.   
You are back, you are fractured, yet you still argue.  
You argue I care about people.  
I argue (only with myself) that I care for people.   
Distinct in its difference. About. For.  
One conveys feelings (about). One conveys obligation. Promise (for).  
You argue I care about people.  
I try not to argue. Nothing good ever came from arguing with you.  
You are nothing. I want nothing.   
A chasm, two sides of the same coin. No chance for one to reach the other.  
A chasm, and yet you built a fucking bridge.  
Nothing. You and me.  
You argue that I care about people.  
I argue back (not with you, never with you, your tongue is quick, your smile is sharp and I hate it. I hate you.). I argue back because the core is still damaged, but the rage, oh the rage. The rage subsides. There is nothing left, in face of the fear. Fear. Feelings, all consuming. Fatal. I remember them. But ultimately, blue eyes, a gasp, pained, but in a voice, so familiar. Fatal. A voice. Singular. A voice speaking with a thousand tongues. A liar. And yet. Blue eyes, a truth. A truth in those eyes. _Life_ in those eyes. The fear breaks down. The rage forces its way into my fist. I don’t remember squashing the rage. I never squashed it before, but the fear simmers. And there’s bandages. There’s already so goddamn many bandages. The fear simmers, the rage boils and the caring hurts. The hate outweighs, the anger wins.  
My fingers don’t shake. I won’t let them. Emotions, a trap — never show, never give, never compromise. And yet. The fist still shakes, even as the rage boils but doesn’t outweigh the need to care for, even as the anger does. No, not care 'for'. Promises and obligation, family and protection. Care 'about'. Safety, freely given, without regard for pain inflicted upon oneself. Care 'about'. A need to see those blue eyes. Card hands through those auburn locks. A need to touch, to whisper 'stay' and not trade it. Whisper 'stay' to simply stay. No negotiation, no truth for truth, no question and answer. Only sorrow and pain, emotions. A trap. Compromised.   
You argue I care about people.  
I don’t. I care _for_ people.  
I care _about_ a person. Singular. Too much.   
I hate liars. I want to deny the truth.  
I care about a person.  
Emotions. Were they foreign to me, life would be easier.  
But they’re not. They’re here. Bubbling up, a chemical reaction, irreversible, never evaporating, never dissipating.  
The emotions stay. 'Stay'. I want to whisper the word. I asked you before. I hope to never ask you again.  
'Stay'  
I don’t whisper the word. I cannot. You said you had to go. You will go. But you asked for me to come. Stay — come. 'Stay’ — 'Come with me’. The next best thing.   
The emotions stay. I scream for you to stay (internally, never out loud. I cannot ask, you will not listen if I do. You never do.)  
The emotions stay. I will not speak a plea, will not even think the word— I hate it too much.  
The emotions stay. And by any small mercies, I hope so do you.   
You argue I care about people. I do not. I care for them, so they don’t have to.  
Yet, here I am. The emotions stay.  
And I care about you. And I hate you.


End file.
